


With Shortness of Breath, You Explained the Infinite

by Ourladyofresurrection



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: And Aziraphale just wants him to have a good time, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, In which Crowley hates birthdays, Jerusalem era Crowley is so pretty ugh, Kissing in an ancient mesa, M/M, Making Out, Snuggles under the moonlight, this was longer that I anticipated
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-16
Updated: 2019-07-16
Packaged: 2020-06-29 10:06:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19827910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ourladyofresurrection/pseuds/Ourladyofresurrection
Summary: It’s Crowley’s birthday and him and Aziraphale have vastly different ideas as to how they should be spending it.





	With Shortness of Breath, You Explained the Infinite

_“Pftt— a birthday party for what? two people? Everyone I knew is dead.”_

Aziraphale frowned to himself, feeling a pang of empathy for the boy, despite the crassness of his statement. He knew it only came from a place of hurt— he knew how wounded Crowley had been when his human friends had succumbed to the perilous ephemerality of life. As an immortal being, sometimes he lost sight of just how numbered humans’ days were. Sometimes, he offhandedly took century-long naps, and sometimes, his friends die during them.

_One_ time.

But unlike humans, Crowley had—quite literally, all the time in the world to think about what had happened. To think about what he’d done.

Aziraphale wanted to comfort him, but he was in a certain kind of grief that made all blessings from an angel fall on deaf ears. So he remained planted where he stood, planted in his neutrality.

“Heavens, Crowley, you don’t mince words, do you?” Aziraphale said, sounding somewhat chastising as he shivered.

“‘Dead’ is not a bad word, angel.”

“Well, it’s not a good one either!”

“Tell me, Aziraphale, what would be a good way to say someone’s dead, and you can’t even hope they’ll end up in Heaven, because it’s some industrial, cold bullshit so unlike what they dreamed of!”

“Crowley, you must watch what you’re saying—“ Aziraphale huffed, looking up nervously as if the Almighty’s disapproving face would appear in the chandelier to smite the fallen angel for besmirching Her.

Unbeknownst to Aziraphale, God had been offline for quite a while— bored with Her poker game, the chips still scattered haphazardly across the table. Some say She’s vacationing in the Bahama’s. Crowley’s not so sure.

“Oh, to Hell with those prim wankers and their ‘ineffable plan,’” he drawled, making clumsy gestures with his hands, properly upset now.

“Dear boy,” Aziraphale protested.

But Crowley just walked out, toward his Bentley, muttering, “Bastards. All of them.”

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

Aziraphale frowned to himself, flipping through the yellowed pages of the phonebook deftly, reading glasses having already slid off his nose and into his lap.

“Good Heavens, Anathema, whatever is your phone number?” he muttered to himself, licking his finger absentmindedly as he flicked through the pages of telephone numbers.

“What are you up to, angel?” a voice drawled from behind him.

“Crowley,” he murmured to himself, not unlike the time he uttered the same thing when the demon came to save him in the 17th century after he made the poor decision to visit France during the Reign of Terror.

Those crépes were delicious, though. He offhandedly wondered if he could somehow get those catered to Crowley’s birthday party. Not as though Crowley ate so much as he just watched Aziraphale eat, but he was an angel, for Heaven’s sake— he could afford to be a little selfish.

“Yeah, that’s me.”

Aziraphale hurriedly closed the book, a puff of dust billowing up in his face, giving him the perfect excuse for the awkward cough that followed suit.

“I thought you were checking out the local club? Listening to that ‘bebop’ music of yours,” Aziraphale questioned, clearing his throat.

Crowley made a face at him, finger-quoting, “Bebop. For the last time, angel, The Velvet Underground is _not_ bebop.”

“Oh, I know, dear. Just...” he trailed off, “Just tempting you,” he grinned, wiggling a little.

Much to his delight and the demon’s chagrin, Crowley smiled slightly at that before continuing,

“Besides... 'club was closed. Apparently they only open at eleven,” he said, a little more than incredulous, “eleven. As in eleven _PM._ Can you believe that, angel? Don’t they know any sane person would be asleep by then?”

Aziraphale smiled discreetly to himself, so as not to further aggravate his demon in his moment of passion. Despite his youthful appearance, Crowley really had started to adopt the cantankerous personality of an old man— six-thousand years will do that to you.

“How odd,” he smiled up at him, “these humans and their strange ways.”

“Myeh,” he said, in a noncommittal tone, then turned toward the phonebook, looking defensive, “who were you calling?”

Aziraphale gulped, and with the same zeal he had when he once told Hamlet to ‘buck up’, he managed:

“Oh, just Anathema! See what else Agnes Nutter has in store for us— any more burning...bookshops,” he finished, choosing not to mention the burning of the Bentley, deciding it may be but salt in the wound.

“Mhmm,” the demon responded, not sounding convinced, “didn’t Agnes Nutter stop writing prophecies already?”

“Well,” Aziraphale frowned, flustered at the call of his own bluff, “you would think that she ought to have anticipated that Anathema and Newt would have burnt them— perhaps she wrote a second book.”

“Mhmm. And you’re not planning a secret birthday party for me, right? Because we talked about this already.”

He flushed at the neck, still feeling some old divine shame over the act of lying— some guilt never changes, “Of course not, dear. I only want what’s best for you.”

“Good,” Crowley said, sprawling his limbs into a nearby armchair, sunglasses still firmly shading his eyes, “I would hope so.”

Aziraphale quietly picked up the phonebook again. He had some calls to make, and he could only hope he was doing the right thing.

After all, isn’t disobeying demons part of his job as an angel?”

_No_ , he thought to himself, _not as Crowley’s angel._

Aziraphale pushed his doubt down and picked up the book, dialing a familiar number as he watched the digits turn and click into place.

He was doing the right thing...right?

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

Crowley strode through the park, hands tucked halfway into his pockets as he sighed. The one disadvantage of wearing women’s jeans was their teeny tiny pockets— an invention of his side meant to help advertise the usage of purses to encourage capitalism.Well, it worked like a charm but had proven to be a major inconvenience when Crowley tried to look cool and ended up with his pinky and thumb sticking out at his sides like he was perpetually doing a ‘hang loose’ sign.

Ahead, he caught view of Aziraphale, poised on one side of the bandstand, looking nervous as he fiddled with his collar and smoothed down his shirt. The angel locked eyes with him at that moment, sparing a small wave at the demon. Shy, almost. It was cute—not that Crowley would ever admit that, but that didn’t change the fact of the matter, which was that Aziraphale was adorable in every sense of the word.

It was his birthday— well, date of conception. Every angel had one, just slightly different from humans. It was truly too difficult and abstract a concept to be put in human terms. In any case, he was hesitant as he came closer into view, not knowing what the angel had in store. He appeared to be alone, which was mildly comforting.

The angel had invited him there half an hour prior— Aziraphale respectably early, Crowley fashionably late.

He approached him, coming up along the opposite stairs to where the angel stood, smiling slightly at him, “Hello, angel.”

“Hello, Crowley,” he smiled tentatively, both of them exchanging a heady exchange of fond silence before he added, glancing up his body in a quick flick of an eye, “still a demon, then?”

Despite himself, Crowley found himself chuckling into the back of his hand, shaking his head.

Aziraphale just grinned back at him, wiggling slightly like he always did when he was feeling playful or pleased with himself.

“Familiar place, all too familiar memory, angel. Not planning on denying that you like me again, are you?”

Aziraphale blushed at the memory, biting his lip and tilting his chin up as his gaze softly floated up from the ground to Crowley’s eyes, “That depends— would you trust me if I said that?”

Crowley moved in closer to his face, his angel’s breath hitching in his throat as he teasingly flicked his forked tongue out, before murmuring against his ear, “Oh angel, I don’t think you have a prayer.”

Aziraphale bit his lip, feigning nervousness, though perhaps not all of it was for show, “Blasphemy...I don’t think my side would like that very much.”

Crowley made a sound in the back of his throat, “Nyeh,” before leaning in, his breath ghosting over Aziraphale’s lips, “we’re on our own sssssside, angel.”

Aziraphale went pink at the exchange— the intimate re-enactment of their previous exchange seemingly too intense, given where they were. Given that...

“Crowley,” he whispered.

“Mmmhmm, angel?” he asked, but hands moving to grip his lapels tightly, not unlike that one time at the Satanic church, his gaze shifted downward— almost condescendingly at him.

Or at least that’s what it would appear to anyone who didn’t know the demon as well as Aziraphale did.

“Crowley,” he repeated, a little firmer this time, face going redder as the demon looked at him as if he was going to devour him right then and there in the park, under the bandstand.

The demon seemed to catch on at that moment, sensing the terseness in the angel’s voice, feeling heat prickle on the back of his neck as he turned reluctantly to see half the town piled along the side of the park, embarrassed eyes watching the exchange.

Dead silence.

Then, Adam blew a single, off-key note on his party blower, Crowley letting go off Aziraphale— who already looked regretful.

Well, there was no turning back now.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

Despite his evident discontent, that was radiating off of Crowley in waved that threatened to drown Aziraphale, the demon put on a fake smile and even talked to the people there who they had grown to consider their friends.

Heavens, he even accepted a hug from sweet, pre-pubescent Warlock, still soft and tender, not having yet been struck with the malady of teenage angst.

Aziraphale smiled at the sight of Crowley talking to their god-child, knees bent in a way that must be uncomfortable, just to be eye-level with the boy. It warmed his heart, but still, he could feel the twinge of guilt deep in the pit of his stomach every time Crowley ceased to look back at him.

The angel snuck away for a moment, as hard as it was to tear his eyes away from the sweet sight of his demon ‘miracle’-ing young Warlock a small, black duck, much to the boy’s delight.

He spotted Anathema amongst the crowds, moving through the clusters of people and pulling her aside.

“What’s up, Aziraphale?” she smiled, bejeweled fingers wrapped elegantly around the flute of sparkling champagne in her hands.

He bit his lip, lowering his voice, “Did Agnes Nutter write any more prophecies...by any chance?”

She looked at him questioningly, “Oh, you know that Newt and I burned those pages, don’t you?”

“Right. Yes, of course, but,” he paused, fiddling with his buttons, “did you keep any pages...by any chance?”

“Aziraphale,” she said, voice smooth and almost playful as if she was catching on, “what’s this all about.”

“Oh, nothing—“ he started, but at the imploring look he received, finished, “oh for somebody’s sake— Crowley is mad at me, and I wanted to know—“

“If things would work out?” she finished, smiling.

“Well, yes.”

She grinned sympathetically at him, patting him on the shoulder, “I don’t think you need that, Aziraphale.”

He spluttered, following her as she moved away, “But how else will I know how to fix things?”

“Well, you do it like the rest of us,” she provided, smiling at Newt, who looked like he might pass out at the small gesture, “you figure it out together. That’s what couples do.”

With that, she walked away, joining a puppy-dog-eyed Newt and casting one last devilish look back at him.

Aziraphale remained planted where he stood, dumbfounded.

_Couple?_

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

Aziraphale had headed straight for the buffet after that— wanting a familiar temptation in light of many new ones he was becoming subjected to.

He popped a bit of vanilla cake in his mouth— it was good. Not crépes from 17th century France good, but good nonetheless. As soon as he spotted Crowley, sprawled out lazily on the park bench, he placed his paper plate down, moving back into the crowd.

“How about some entertainment?” he blurted out, standing before the small gathering of kids— hoping his act went better this time around than it did the first time he attempted this in front of an audience.

He could see, practically feel Crowley tense up in his seat, no doubt rolling his eyes behind those sunglasses of his.

The cheers of the kids encouraged him, however, and he started his act, summoning bunnies and doves like he had the first time, even adding in the addition of a small duckling, just for Crowley. It appeared smack dab in the middle of his lap, peering up intently at him.

The kids oohed and awed over the small creature— Crowley’s expression unreadable behind those sunglasses of his, but Aziraphale didn’t miss the way he subtly opened up his shirt pocket for the duckling to nestle into.

Shortly after going through the rest of his act, he decided to test the waters a little bit, the kids have already scattered about, chattering excitedly and hyper on the cake. He moved in front of Crowley, leaning down slightly.

“What’s this?” he asked, moving his hand behind his ear, in effort to pull the silly parlor trick of producing a small coin, but his hand was stopped by Crowley’s hand, which closed around his wrist.

“No.”

That was it. Not ‘no, Aziraphale’ or ‘no, Angel.’

Just...no.

Aziraphale flushed, “I just thought—“

“Well, you thought wrong,” the demon finished, getting up and stalking off, ignoring the way Dog followed him, barking happily, and ignoring Aziraphale’s plaintive gaze on his back.

Aziraphale felt his heart sink— he had done the wrong thing, after all.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

The blunder had been more or less forgiven after a few weeks— or rather, forgotten, at least. Not unintentionally, but entirely by choice, the choice initiated by Crowley, that is. They had just gotten in the car from a nearby restaurant that Aziraphale wanted to try, the drive so silent and terse that not even Freddie Mercury dared to say— er, sing a word. Not even a single _‘Galileo.’_ Not one _‘Bismillah.’_ Not one mention of Lord Beezelbub having a certain devil put aside for him.

Crowley sat parked outside the restaurant, Aziraphale sitting primly in the passenger seat— quieter than usual.

“Can I drive you anywhere?” he finally asked, sighing leaning back in his seat, hands resting on the wheel, gaze planted firmly ahead.

Aziraphale licked his lips nervously, gaze trying to peer through Crowley’s sunglasses, “Anywhere,” he said, shifting his weight, “anywhere you want to go.”

Crowley looked surprised at this, “I go fast.”

“I know.”

“You’re gonna worry about the pedestrians.”

“I know.”

“Angel are you s—“

Aziraphale interrupted him, holding his hands between his own, not missing the way Crowley blushed, “I’m sure,” he affirmed, pausing before adding softly, “I’ll go anywhere you want me to, Crowley.”

Somehow, Crowley felt as though he suddenly wasn’t just talking about the drive. He took off his glasses, blinking a few times. Then he pulled the ignition and started to drive.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

After a bit of time, they arrived.

“Crowley—“ he trailed off, seeing that they were parked along what appeared to be a desolate road, just a small wooden fence separating the barrier of the road and a steep drop-off just slightly, precariously so, beyond it.

“Just trust me, angel,” he said softly, Aziraphale blushing at the return of the nickname, his heart thudding in his chest as he struggled to contain the smile on his face.

They exited the car, Crowley beginning to blaze ahead, looking confident in where he was going. Demons were, by no standard— good at navigating. Aziraphale once saw Crowley walk straight into a wall. Twice. Within ten minutes of each other. So really, it was odd that he appeared to know this place by heart. Aziraphale wondered offhandedly if he had been here before.

After a few minutes of an uphill climb, Crowley leads them to a small clearing overlooking the city.

“Crowley,” he breathed, eyes fixated ahead, whilst the demon went and sat on the ground, too close to the edge for the angel’s comfort.

“You coming?”

Aziraphale bit his lip, “What if we fall?” but sat next to him anyway. He would risk falling for Crowley any day— he’d done it for six thousand years, after all.

“Like Hell, I’ll let you fall,” Crowley responded, sounding almost soft under the grumble of words.

“If we discorporate now, I doubt either of our lots would be so merciful.”

“Humans do it all the time, angel, and they only have one chance at this life thing.”

Aziraphale worried at his bottom lip, “Yes. Well, I suppose you’re right.”

A comfortable silence fell over them, the stretch of the city in front of them radiant and glittering— some kind of hum to the air. Aziraphale marveled at the view and started to understand why Crowley enjoyed this so much.

“This has been my favorite spot for centuries,” he murmured, “‘s’ funny— there used to be a church here.”

Aziraphale turned toward him at this, “A church? But what about the—“

“Consecrated grounds? I know. It was built on top of an ancient burial site— so Hell won over that one.”

“ _Burial site?”_ Aziraphale parroted, looking incredulous as he stared uncomfortably at the ground beneath them.

Crowley just ignored this, continuing, “And before that, it was just an endless stretch of land,” he pointed toward the skyline, “that never used to be here...used to be a mesa...some kind of red desert.”

“That sounds...lovely. If only we could see it.”

Crowley looked at him, looking slightly wary, but waved his hand, nonetheless, performing a miracle of his own.

It was breathtaking. Where city lights once lit up the sky— the lazily setting Sun soon took its place. Hilltops upon hilltops of orange-red sand and gravel spanned further beyond what the eye could see.

“Dear boy, this is...this is beautiful,” Aziraphale said, hushed— as if he were afraid of scaring it all away. Truth be told, he was.

“It truly is,” Crowley remarked, now clad in a black robe— red hair long and curling out of his hood, faint freckles scattered across his nose, just like how they had been in Jerusalem, all those years ago.

Aziraphale looked down at his own body, finding himself in a white cotton robe that draped elegantly down his body. Simple— yet so beautiful. For the third time that night, he was breathless— eyes utterly transfixed with the constellation of freckles across Crowley’s nose and the serpentine eyes that met his.

They sat atop the mesa, watching the flames of daylight putter out into the sand, the sky taking on a deep blue color— illuminated by a tapestry of stars.

“Oh, Heavens,” he breathed out, doling out an apologetic look for his choice of words when Crowley hissed between his teeth.

“I would come here sometimes...a very long time ago. Talk to the Almighty, after I’d been...cast out.”

“Here?” Aziraphale questioned, “Why, Crowley, Britain wasn’t a mesa in history.”

Crowley didn’t say anything, just stared straight ahead.

“We’re not in Britain anymore, are we?”

The demon sighed, shaking his head, “‘Miracled us there.”

“Where’s...there?”

“I’m not sure what the humans call it nowadays.”

“I see,” Aziraphale looked over at his turned head, spotting that Crowley had fastened a golden scarab pin in his hood, that was catching rays of moonlight and winking at him alluringly.

How fitting.

“I made those stars, you know,” Crowley murmured, pointing toward a certain constellation in the sky.

“Why, Crowley,” Aziraphale swallowed, “it’s beautiful.”

And he gazed at the demon beside him, fiery red locks spilling out of his hood— dark as night, golden eyes peering out, the shift between orange and yellow as languid as the slow drip of honey. He looked at the soft brush of freckles across his nose and listened to his steady breaths and wondered how anyone so beautiful could have ever fallen. They sit there in silence awhile, both of them holstering thudding hearts— neither to the others’ knowledge. Watching the sky before them, feeling the cool breeze ruffle their clothing.

Then, Crowley spoke, “You know, this is really all I ever wanted.”

Aziraphale turned to look at him.

“I mean, for my birthday. All I wanted was this.”

The angel flushed, “I should have asked, and I should have listened, I know.”

“No, angel,” he said, “it’s not...”

“Not?”

Crowley sighed, rubbing a hand over his eye, “After I fell, the Almighty took everything from me; my pride, my status, my world...Hell wasn’t any better, only there was nothing to lose.”

Aziraphale cocked his head sympathetically.

“That was...” he sighed, looking away, “until I met you. Suddenly, I was back in the Garden of Eden with the Almighty’s constant gaze on me as I tried not to mess things up. Only I do mess things up, angel. It’s kinda my thing.

“I messed up some great friendships by sleeping for a century. I messed up my chances as an angel for asking too many questions. And I almost lost you during Armageddon, Aziraphale. It was so _close_ , I don’t think you understand.”

“Crowley, dear, I’m not following.”

He huffed out a sigh, fingers twitching as he reached out and cupped his hand over Aziraphale’s, who blushed furiously and felt his heart try to leap out of his chest.

“Aziraphale,” he breathed, like it was a prayer, “you’re my best friend. I can’t...I can’t lose you too.”

“Crowley.”

_“Angel.”_

Crowley leaned in, cupping his face with his free hand, pressing their lips together in a tentative kiss. Aziraphale gasped against his lips, but responded readily, cheek pinkening where Crowley was gently stroking a path along his cheekbone.

“I thought I lost you.”

“You could never lose me,” Aziraphale managed between the assault of kisses Crowley was subjecting him to— albeit, airily and a little dizzily.

Crowley groaned at this, hugging him tightly and snugly against his chest, “Heaven would have to kill me twice to get anywhere close to you.”

Aziraphale, now completely in Crowley’s lap, choked out, “And I would walk through—ah, Hell and back for you.”

Crowley kissed up his neck, pressing his lips firmly under his jaw, just at his erratic pulse-point, warm to the touch, “Please never leave me, angel.”

Aziraphale shook his head, burying his face in Crowley’s neck, “Never. Wherever you go, I’ll follow.”

“Run away with me, angel,” he gasped against his skin.

Arizaphale tilted his head to kiss him, murmuring against his lips, “Anytime you want.”

And who was to question Crowley, where he lay in his own little pocket of space and time, wrapped up in the beauty of his angel when he felt as though this was everything he could ever want?

With Aziraphale around, birthdays— let alone eternity, was looking great. And that was perhaps the best present of all.

**Author's Note:**

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